Colder Than Ice
by Kitcat14
Summary: It's after the war, and Harry can't help but notice how Malfoy has changed. There's something going on: the boy is acting strange, and it's not only his sleep patterns. And what is this about Contractors and Gates? While Harry's practically stalking him, Malfoy is having problems of his own. Good!Slytherins, Ginny bashing. Rated T for bad language. Not sure about the genres...
1. Page 1 Main Song

Stairway to the Sky

By: Within Temptation

Seven seconds to the rise  
Can't believe I'm still alive  
And heaven was waiting for me  
I thought this would be the end  
But I know you'll understand  
All that is keeping me here

I dream of a stairway to the skies  
My angel is coming down from heaven to take me  
I reach out but then you fade away  
Whenever you call for me  
Know that I'm only one step behind

I sense this time I may have changed  
But one this still remains  
I'm torn and the hate still lingers  
I slowly start to realize  
We won't reunite  
I still have to march on through

I dream of a stairway to the skies  
My angel is coming down from heaven to take me  
I reach out but then you fade away  
Whenever you call for me  
Know that I'm only one step behind

Is it a curse or a fortune?  
Have I been blinded by regret?  
Redemption awaits  
My soul is at stake  
Will I find a stairway to the skies  
In the end?

I dream of a stairway to the skies  
My angel is coming down from heaven to take me  
I reach out but then you fade away  
Whenever you call for me  
Know that I'm only one step behind  
Know that I'm only one step behind

* * *

The song holds a very inner emotional strand to the story coming ahead. It's not going to be understood if you take it literally. It's going to be easier to understand this after you read certain parts of the story, so always go back to this.

I haven't based Colder than Ice on the song, so don't think of it as a songfic. Each chapter has its own set of lyrics based on the chapter written below, so hold tight and enjoy it! XD

The chapters haven't been beta'd yet, nor will they be anytime soon due to my laziness to ask for one. If you see any mistakes, please tell me and I'll be happy to edit it. Each chapter will be uploaded within a span of one to two weeks depending on how fast I'm able to type them on the computer, but don't worry about anything. I haven't given up on this fic, because I _finally_ have plotted it. Yayyyy!


	2. Ch 1 Red and Silver

**A/N: **Hey guyyyyys! I'm ALIVE! I just want to say that I'll be updating every one to two longest it would take is three to four weeks ((which I hope won't happen)), so I hope you enjoy this! I'm still sorry about Avenger's Impossible and Hetalia Heros...

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor Darker than Black. They go to their respective owners. Also, since there's a small mentioning in the Law of Equivalent Exchange, I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

* * *

"_How long can I keep pretending to be?_

_That the stars in the sky could mean something to me?"_

-Hear Me, Hollywood Undead

* * *

"Mr Malfoy!"

Harry jerks his head back, like the other students, to find the Slytherin has fallen asleep. Ron snickers right next to him as Professor McGonagoll strolls up to the sleeping boy and slaps his left hand with a loud rap of her wand. A groan elicits from his mouth and he stirs, for a moment, his eyes blank before they focus on the professor.

Her mouth thins like paper. "I will not tolerate sleeping in my class," she scolds, her hawk-like eyes, razor sharp as they stare at the boy. "10 points from Slytherin and a detention tonight for your impudence."

Malfoy just stares at her and nods slowly, his movements lethargic, as if half of what she said registered in his head and the other half melted into the air. His silver eyes catch Harry's absinthe gaze and they hold for a moment before the Gryffindor turns to the front where the Transfiguration teacher explains how to transfigure an object from the other side of the room into an animal.

He barely listens, his mind wandering to Malfoy.

The class finally ends with the professor assigning them a thousand word essay on the difference between transfiguring an object into an animal and an animal into an object. The Golden Trio walk out of the room, Harry's eyes lingering on Malfoy who looks like he's barely catching a word Parkinson's saying. She looks a bit miffed at his nonresponsive attitude.

"Don't you think that was weird," he asks his friends as they walk to the Great Hall for lunch.

"That Ferret got a detention? Ha! He deserved it," Ron laughs.

Hermione nods, even though there's a slight frown on her face for her boyfriend's behaviour. "Serves him right for falling asleep in class. He's luck he got away with a few points and a detention." Her voice then switches to thoughtful concern. "He looked ill. Maybe he hasn't gotten enough sleep." Ron gives her a scowl and Harry stares at her in surprise. "Really, Ron," she admonishes, clutching her books tighter to her chest, "you haven't noticed?"

Harry gives her a sheepish look, making her press her lips together tightly, resembling Professor McGonagoll for a moment.

"'Course not 'Mione," Ron says carelessly as they walk into the Great Hall. "Why would we bother ourselves about a _Death Eater_?" Ron's eyes hold a defiant look.

They sit down at their table, each taking a plate of food as their peers chatter around them.

"I mean," he continues, taking a large bite out of a chicken leg, "he'z uh shwimee geet."

Hermione slaps him in the back of the head, in disgust, scolding his table manners with disdain.

"Malfoy?" Ginny slips right next to Harry, leaning into him, not noticing the way he tensed. He gives her a half-hearted smile. "Ron, let it go. He's harmless now." Ron says something scathingly and Ginny rolls her eyes, turning to talk to Harry instead. "Hey. I was wondering…"

Harry subconsciously glances over at the Slytherin table but finds Malfoy and his cohorts missing. _Dammit. The slimy git must be up to something,_ he thinks before freezing in realisation. It's a thoughtless remark, and presumptuous. He can hear Hermione now—"you're a horrible person! Just leave him alone, the war's over…oh, I don't care about that Ron!"—and groans in horror.

Now that he thinks about it, it's not that strange that the group doesn't show up during meals—they were on the wrong side of the war, anyway, so he understands where they come from—but something is up, knowing at his stomach uncomfortably.

"Harry," Ginny prompts, her brown eyes gazing at him in bewilderment. "Did you hear me?"

He blinks. "I'm sorry, I need to do something," he mutters, not seeing her mouth open to interject. He leaves, Ginny's eyes trailing after his fading figure with puzzlement and disappointment.

He leaves the dining area and wanders down the corridor, stopping behind a corner. Two voices float in his direction.

"Blaise," whines a girl whom he suspects is Parkinson, by the tone and carry of her voice, "I'm worried about him."

Harry stops in surprise. Can Slytherin's even carry such an emotion like _worry_? It's certainly perplexing.

"You know how he is," a boy sighs—Harry guesses that the boy's Blaise from his response. "He just needs some room to breathe."

"But Draco needs—"

"You need to let him be. He needs some time to be alone," he interrupts. "After what has happened…"

Harry hears a pig-like sniffle, wrinkling his nose slightly as steps approach. He quickly pretends that he has been walking from eating, taking a step just when Parkinson turns the corner and sees him. Her eyes are red from crying.

"What do you want, Potter," she sneers, though her voice isn't into it. Rubbing her eyes furiously, she makes the condition worse.

He doesn't respond and she lets out a hiss of finality before shoving pass him, Blaise towing after her, shooting him a look of apprehension. Their voices fade as Harry turns the corner.

He did find Malfoy, though—after 10 long minutes speeding down the corridors—but what he saw wasn't what he expected to encounter. _This is strange,_ he thinks, stepping closer to the blond. He looked through a good quarter of the first floor of the castle before seeing him on the commons outside. The blond heir is sitting on the ground, listless, barely reacting to the sound of conspicuous footsteps behind him, crunching under the grass. As the Gryffindor approaches, he feels a draft of warm air and hears a crackling sound. Drawing closer to the man, he finds a small fire a foot away from Malfoy's face, blazing hungrily for the blond, trying to reach him, but can't quite make it.

It's ominous and for a moment, it scares him.

Harry takes it wand, muttering, "Aguamenti," with a flick. It simmers out with a hiss. "You shouldn't do that."

Malfoy suddenly jerks out, looking at Harry with wide eyes, alarm painted all over his face. "What are you doing here," he hisses after a moment of stunned silence.

Harry resists the urge to snort in derisiveness. "Funny. I could ask you the same." His verdant eyes focus on the burnt patch of grass and Malfoy's follow after a moment. The Gryffindor's eyes flick back to the Slytherin's, waiting until a wave of panic rushes over the other's face. "Are you okay," he asks carefully.

Malfoy stiffens. "I'm fine," he growls.

_You're lying_, the brunette thinks, but instead says, "when was the last time you've slept?" He doesn't miss the sudden wash of surprise flicker in the blonde's eyes before being soaked into the cold mask he always wears.

"Care about my wellbeing, Potter," he sneers, but stops when Harry quirks an eyebrow. "A few days."

It comes out as a mumble, barely heard if no one was listening, but Harry understands it anyway. Malfoy suddenly feels warmth wrap around him and his person leaning into Harry's unexpected embrace.

"Sleep," the boys commands.

Malfoy is too tired to argue as he finds himself accepting the comforting action. The sound of the Gryffindor's heartbeat lulls him to security as he welcomes darkness.

* * *

To say that Draco expected himself to wake up in the Golden Boy's arms in the middle of the grass fiend would be an understatement. It's not that he doesn't appreciate the abnormal gesture of his enemy, but he's more than sure the boy would hex him before hugging him. His father would wear a tutu and dance with the Dark Lord to the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy before that would actually happen.

Hmmm. That's not a bad thought. His mind suddenly flashes to the evil bastard wearing a pink thong and chokes. Oh Fu—Delete. Delete. DELETE. He shudders in disgust.

But it's strange. Of all people he could have woken up with…it just _had_ to be Potter, didn't it? Somehow it's slightly comforting and he curses whatever worldly being that's out to get him for even thinking such a thought.

His liquid silver eyes flick towards Potter's features in curiosity. His face is relaxed and the sun glistens warmly off his long, dark eyelashes and Draco can't help but run his fingers through the messy, dark hair that's surprisingly soft. A soft smile breaks from his visage.

He turns a light baby pink when he notices Potter's eyelashes flutter for a moment. He freezes and thinks fast. "Potter, as much as I love being in your arms, I finding that being too close to you for longer than it's required will decrease my reputations."

The Boy-Who-Lived opens his bleary eyes and smiles for a moment. They both know it's the opposite. Potter's reputation would be smeared if he were found with Draco.

"You love being in my arms?"

Ffffff—of course he'd only catch that. Bloody selective prick.

Draco scowls and stands up, ripping himself from his captor's arms in a vigorous jerk. "Ponce. Of course you heard that." He glares at the sententious Gryffindor who's smiling at him in amusement.

His ears suddenly twitch, catching a row of voices to their left, chattering worriedly. Draco looks at Potter for a moment, his eyes expressionless, before running towards the castle as the voices near.

Draco curses to himself, running as fast as he can until he reaches the Slytherin Common Room. His face is red and his breath is ragged in the lack of oxygen as he closes the door behind him. His muscles are screaming at him furiously for making them run so much and for building up lactic acid. He ungracefully flops down on a plush, green couch in exhaustion.

If his father could see him now. "You're a disgrace," he'd say with a trademark sneer reserved for people that he dislike and think that are under him—which is practically everyone.

He can't believe what happened. Potter was practically holding him. How the blooding effing hell did he end up in his archnemesis arms anyway?! It's ridiculous and simply preposterous. He must be dreaming. He pinches himself just to check, only to feel a sudden prick of pain and a reddening mark on his pearly, white skin. He stares at it in horror.

Oh God. What would father say? He'd be punished. Oh fuck. No. He'd be _killed._

He breathes in the damp air, his lungs thankful, staring at the flickering fire place intently, trying to not panic. A door hinge creaks—will the bloody house elves fix them?! He asked them five times!—and Blaise struts in with a relaxed look on his face, his mouth widening when he spots his roommate. Draco's expression darkens at the sight of his mate—purely platonic of course.

"You look like a ball of sunshine and rainbows," Blaise smirks, watching his friend roll over and glower at him.

"What do you want?"

"You." Draco's face twists in disgusted horror and Blaise laughs. "Oh Salazar! You should see your face," he chortles loudly, clutching his stomach.

"Fuck off," he hisses, feeling a vein pop.

Blaise tuts evenly, his eyes twinkling in amusement. He's about to say something until a shrill screech nearly gives him and Draco a heart attack. "Salazar! Pansy died!" He stares in mock horror at Pansy's floating green head in the fire place, fanning himself dramatically.

"I'm not dead," she says, aghast.

He pretends to collect himself, making a show of it, saying in a serious tone, "Hello darling Pansy with the eternal sunshine coming out of her arse. Your hair is as beautiful as unicorn piss, as always. Simply _gorgeous._"

"That wasn't even witty," she cackles, her laugh sounding suspiciously similar to a dying Chihuahua. "But have you completely forgotten about Divination," she asks, sounding cross. "It's going to start in ten minutes."

The boys look at each other in surprise, cursing in their heads as they quickly gather their supplies and bags, leaving Pansy's decapitated head calling after them as they run to the Divination tower. They arrive in time, just before Professor Trelawney calls them in their misty voice at attention.

Malfoy's heart beats wildly in his chest, trying to break free from its confines that protect it from being harmed. _This has got to stop_, he thinks to himself with annoyance.

They're to predict their future in the remnants of tea—"Careful Ms Brown. After you break my teacup, please take a white one instead. The black ones are new"—and since it _totally_ didn't fail the first time they've done it, why not continue mastering the useless skill.

Draco looks down at the dark china in his hands with a glare. It's slushes with dark, moist sludge—all irregular. "It looks like a—"

"Hippogriff," Blaise finishes, picking it up, trying to contain his laughter. "Seems like hippogriffs can't get enough of you"—Draco's eyes widen in dread—"Seems like your life isn't fucked up enough. You're going to get ran over by a herd of Hippogriffs while doing the Macarena in a mini skirt and a coconut bra." His nose wrinkles and he turns to Draco. "I thought you had better fashion sense than that."

The Malfoy heir scowls and glares at him askance, and opens his mouth to object but is cut off when the professor _literally_ rips his teacup out of Blaise's hands with impossible strength. She suddenly drops it—Salazar. Couldn't you even predict that you were going to drop it? Her glassy eyes focus on Draco and he sweat drops.

"Y-you," she rasps, pointing a shaky finger at him, gulping. "You're going to suffer a horrible death and never escape it. There's no hope." Of course there's no bloody hope. Evidently he's doomed for life. Then after she mutters the evident _phoney_ prediction, she promptly breaks down.

If he were a second year or a first, he'd probably faint, but since he survived all things that are evil, he takes it calmly.

He runs out the room as fast as he can.

Her wails of certain misfortune vibrate off the stone walls, falling behind him. He knows better than to believe her, but it _did_ make him nervous and a bit scared at the thought. Is someone going to kill him?

He shouldn't be that surprise, though; there are thousands who want to kill because of his participation on the war. It's a surprise that he's even alive and not missing a kidney—not that he's going to argue. He does, after all, love his kidney, as well as other parts of his body. His face darkens. At least most.

His arm burns for a moment in distant memory and he rubs it anxiously, wobbling down the corridor.

He could go back to his common room; it seems to be the best option at the moment and the best way to avoid an untimely demise…unless of course the person that's going to kill him is a Slytherin, then he's pretty much doomed. With that happy thought, he continues him way down to the room, debating the risk.

He hears something and looks behind himself warily, sighing in relief that Pansy and Blaise weren't trying to catch up to him—or worse: the Golden Boy himself. No. He can't deal with that prat right now.

A flurry of things rush through his head in tandems. Is he going to die? Will he be able to finally curse Blaise before his death? Will that house elf stop dragging that ridiculously large tome across the tiles?—wait…what?

He jerks his head to his left and stares at the little critter, his mouth agape as the elf attempt to drag it. It must have noticed him because it squeaks in surprise, suddenly disappearing with a snap, leaving the leather, Hulk-styled book behind.

Draco looks left and right with watchful cautiousness before walking towards the abused piece of literature. _It's like a journal on steroids,_ he speculates, opening the front binding. There's no signature of ownership.

Curiosity gets the best of him and he takes it to the common room, disregarding the fact it's an unknown book and it might be cursed and be the thing that might kill him—but it's a completely understandable thing for someone to take a random book to read. When he turns to the next page, the first sentence pops out to him in confusing words. He quickly skims it.

There's something about two large gates—one in South America and its twin gate in Japan—that decided to spontaneously appear as if a higher being decided to grace a miracle upon his people and crush the mortals under the large, hulking masses. Karma. It says that about five years ago, the suspiciously named Heaven's Gate wiped out the South, obliterating everything in its path.

Strange things started ten years ago when the two gates appeared: a few people started to acquire supernatural powers; anomalies started to pop up everywhere; and the stars disappear, being replaced by the life of those called Contractors.

Draco frowns at the summary, taking a place in the corner of the room so he can see people enter and leave—which he figures, that in itself, can be creepy. With shaky calmness, he reads the book, translating it to his thoughts at the moment.

_A Contractor is a fucked up, psychotic killing machine whose more or less drained from their emotions. He or she wields one or two abilities that they adhere, giving them a rather dark reputation. Along with the power, they must perform remuneration, a twisted, obsessive compulsive "price" for the use of their powers, as well as a pragmatic, depressing world view that could diagnose them as a sociopath. Their activities are catalogued and tracked by their star's Messier Catalogue Number._

_A Doll is a "medium" that form a variation of skills and are created to mimic the attributes and character of humans. They have "observer spirits" which are always use as reconnaissance, and they can send their OS through a medium that is different for each Doll. In order to use OS, they must be in contact with that medium and they can only send their OS to other mediums of the same kind. They can be a perfect spy—given memories and personality of another person, they quickly take on the persons personality and attributes, mimicking all of their habits, dreams, and feelings until told otherwise. However, they have the ability to have a personality of their own—they are able to become something else, different from their "set" characteristics._

His eyes narrow in curiosity as he flips through the book, finally finding the information about the Gates and their importance.

_The Gates appeared ten years ago, creating alterations in the sky and wrecking havoc on Earth. The stars were replaced by fake stars that correspond with a Contractor's life. In their appearance, a totalitarian war was started, in which Great Britain and Argentina participated in, called __**Heaven's War**__. Following the fallout, the United States lost its position as superpower. Several countries are now conducting research in Hell's Gate to find out what was the cause of the sudden disappearance. Those researching the sudden and abrupt appearances held the special anomaly with ambiguity that there is a cause, but no logical explanation. Others think that instead of one cause, there are several unexplainable, illogical, and unidentifiable reasons to the current human mind._

_Testing has been drawn over the years in hope for an explanation of the anomaly, but none has been found; however, there has been evidence that there are unexplainable factors that hold incongruous results that seem to perform against each other._

_The disappearance of Heaven's Gate and the obliteration of South America raised several questions prompting government scientists to work rigorously in Hell's Gate to identify the reason of the abrupt and detrimental evanescence; and whether or not the exact thing would bring the fall of Japan and the nearby East Asian countries._

_A myth claims that whatever was lost can be found in Hell's Gate, proved by the strange miracles witnessed by courageous people to go inside in hopes to have their wishes granted. However, it seems that in order for a wish to be granted, there must be an equivalent exchange, similar to the Law of Equivalent Exchange in alchemy. One cannot gain anything without giving something in return; in order to obtain, paraphernalia of equal value must be lost._

_The Gates hold many answers and questions in concerning its appearance as well as the laws and order of the human world._

_Indeed, the truth [might] exist(s) beyond the Gate._

Draco's head jerks up at the sudden sound of voices from the other side of the door that leads into the common room. He hastily flicks a disillusionment charm on the tome, stuffing it into his bag. He pulls out his Divination book, only to realise too late that their assignment requires them to meet up with a centaur at an appointed time with an assigned partner…the assignment was given two days ago. Cursing silently, he opens the large book as the door opens with a cackling Blaise and an annoyed Pansy who doesn't even hesitate to give his booty a heavy kick down the steps.

Alas, the boy didn't die from it. What a pity.

"What the bloody hell Pansy," Blaise exclaims, rubbing his head—Draco hopes it hurt. It _better_ hurt. Hmmm. He'll have to thank her later.

"For being a complete arse to Dray." From anyone elses' view, she looks livid in anger, but Draco can see a small flash of amusement in her eyes.

_Traitor._

"As amusing as seeing his arse kicked is," Draco says in a lazy drawl, "I need to know my partner and the time I'm supposed to meet up with the bloody mule."

Pansy turns in surprise at his voice, as if she didn't realise that he was there. She squeals in excitement while Blaise wipes his pants off with a grin. She falters, her smile fading.

"It's absolutely horrid," she bemoans, hand against her forehead for dramatic effects.

Blaise's grin widens and Draco can feel unease in his stomach as she flops onto a couch in front of his person.

"I'm with Weasel. _Weasel_. And his constant whining! Oh Dray! What should I do? I know that I'm going to utterly fail this project now. It's bad enough with his red hair. What if it were to become worse? I could lose my inheritance!"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Stop being melodramatic and tell me who my partner is," he demands, his voice sounding whiny. His molten silver eyes narrow as Blaise stops behind the couch, his canines flashing brightly.

"Dray," he simpers, his voice in false apology and sympathy, "do you know how jealous the girls are of you?" Draco feels his face lose heat, paling at what the Slytherin might be implying. "So many would _kill_ to be his partner. At least you'll have to a closer chance to get into his pants."

The Malfoy heir turns a dark shade of red while Blaise thinks about how his sentence rhymed. He chucks his Divination textbook at Blaise, hearing it delightfully hit its target in the face. "I am not trying to get in his pants! Hell! I'm not _gay_," he says heatedly.

Blaise tuts, rubbing his nose gently, checking for bleed with his thumb in pointer finger. "I'm not bleeding am I," he asks Pansy with wide eyes. She snorts. Once pleased to see that he is indeed not bleeding—the lucky bastard—he cheerily chirps, "keep telling yourself that."

Another textbook flies.

* * *

His mood doesn't elevate as he mutters obscenities down the corridor about how Blaise is an utter prat and how he deserves to be raped by Rottweilers, who, even then, wouldn't serve him any justice. Dinner ended an hour ago and the Slytherin is walking in a reluctant trudge to the Forbidden Forest to meet up with the Gryffindor.

It's been getting darker earlier, which is great for the students who were given the Divination project—someone the Headmistress tied Astronomy with Divination—but not as much to the professors who take liberty in protecting their students. But much, to Hagrid's ability to cooperate with the centaurs, thanks was given to those who were willing to give a lending hand—ermmm…_hoof_—to the students.

Firenze will be his and Potter's guide tonight.

He hopes that Pansy will be fine—she's also going star-gazing tonight, and Salazar knows that she needs the will not to hex the blood-traitor…_yet_. There's a time and place for everything, but this isn't one of them. He does hope that she'll at least make his night miserable.

It actually has been a while since he's been in the forest—partly due to the fear of the beasts that dwell within ((acquired by the detention in First Year)) and partly to the fact he's not given permission to be in the forest unless under adult supervision and permission by a professor or the headmistress. Either way, the Ministry would know about his traveling.

He supposes he's lucky to be given the chance to get out of the school grounds. Hell, he's been forbidden to even attend Hogsmead trips unless he's with a professor, because evidently he's unable to not harm anyone. Bloody bastards they are. They need to pull the sticks out of their arses.

If he even twitch his hand to his wand without a known cause or a proper excuse, he'd be handed a detention and a 5-day probation while Mr I'm-so-bloody-perfect-because-I-defeated-a-bloody- madman-with-a-stick-that-was-pried-from-a-dead-man -who-was-my-headmaster-Potter would just be given a small warning, a smile, and/or an excuse of some kind for "accidentally" hexing a student. Hell, they'd probably say that a spell backfired if someone _died_ by his hands. Potter's existence and the fact that he can get away with anything just annoys him to bits. So much that he'll probably go insane and get incarcerated because of his insanity.

The figurative dark cloud over his head darkens even more as he turns the corner. He sees the familiar emerald-green eyes in front of him. Without a single sign of acknowledgement—a product of his foul mood—he walks pass the brunette with a snort of callous contempt.

* * *

Harry frowns, staring at the back of Malfoy's head as the boy bluntly ignores his existence. It's as if he's _trying_ to be contentious. Wait. He stops.

When has he even learnt the word 'contentious.' He racks his brain for any tell-tale memories but comes up short. His eyes widen in horrid realisation that he actually _learnt_ something.

The blonde's one of the few who acts indifferent around him and towards him without a single sign of adoration and passion for defeating Voldemort and saving the world from a half-crazed, snake-overlord. He's a complete mystery. Sometimes he'd be smiling with his friends and the next moment he'll be so closed off that it unnerves even the professors.

_A dragon shrouded in mystery._

He shakes his head fervently, knocking the sudden thought out of his head. It was completely random—he's not even sure where he got 'dragon.' Hell. He's not even poetic.

Harry continues to follow Malfoy, opting to stay behind him as they walk through the stone arches, down the path, to where they're supposed to meet their guide. The moon shines down on them with a Cheshire grin as stars peek out from behind silver-lined clouds.

When they arrive to their destination, the clonking of hooves to their right alerts them of something galloping towards them. A young centaur trots at ease to Harry's side, staring at the sky.

"It's cloudy," Malfoy complains.

Harry has to resists rolling his eyes while Firenze answers pack with exaggerated patience, "the clouds will clear by the time we reach the endpoint. You'll then be able to see the stars."

A small, derisive snort comes from the heir, but he follows the hybrid along with Harry into the dark, dank forest. To his surprise, Malfoy doesn't make any complaint about the long trek.

After hours, it seems, they've arrived at a large clearing where stars shine brightly above them.

"What can you tell me about Mars," Malfoy asks.

Firenze pauses, his hooves tittering nervously, betraying his calm expression. "Mars seems unusually bright tonight," he finally says. He tells them that he won't be far off, giving them instructions in case of an emergency. He should be back in 30 minutes—enough time for them to complete a good section of the project. They'll have to come back once more to finish it.

Harry frowns at a picture on his parchment. Glancing up at the sky again, his eyes return back to his paper in pure confusion. They've sat down to work.

His eyes shift to the Malfoy heir who hasn't even lifted a quill in attempt to do anything. He notices how prettily the silver-blue moonlight reflects off the man's alabaster skin. He shakes his head furiously, trying to get the image out of his head. _Harry! Control your libido!_ He stops in morbid horror at his thought. Libido? What the bloody hell is libido?! All he knows is that it can't be good if it's related to Malfoy in any way, shape or form.

30 minutes roll by quickly and all that is on Harry's parchment are random phrases that don't correlate to any of the constellations in the sky.

Firenze comes back, his tail swishing behind him. "How far did you get," he enquires.

"Not much," Harry sulks. "Draco didn't do anything." A cynical snort comes from the blond and he doesn't have to look at him to know that the boy rolled his eyes.

The centaur frowns and looks at the Slytherin with a concentrated stare. "I will report your progress to the professor," he warns. Something howls in the distance and Firenze gallops off without any explanation on what it was.

The two wizards pull out their wands just in case something were to happen. A moment passed and they lower them a few inches, keeping them out still.

"You have to work. You cannot give us an F."

Draco turns to him, his silver eyes catching the moonlight, turning them into a luminous pool of blue ice. "What are we doing again?"

Harry is hoping for a tell that the Slytherin is kidding, but nothing of the sort is on his face. It's serious and prompting.

"We're supposed to look at the stars," he grits, feeling annoyance in his voice.

"You're right," Malfoy agrees without a blink.

"Then why did you ask," Harry hisses.

Draco ignores the last comment. "Précisément," he affirms in French, making Harry give him a look of bemusement at the foreign word. "We're supposed to look at _stars._" He points at the sky, pooled with twinkling lights.

Harry wonders if there's something wrong with the boy. Those are stars. What is he saying?

He opens his mouth to object, but hooves stop him. Firenze's tail is twitching and his mind wanders to why the centaur seems so anxious. They hurry back to the castle. Harry's last thought before stepping into the foyer is, _I hope Ron is more fruitful in his project with Pansy,_ before dazedly questioning his sanity and where he picked up the vocabulary words.

Meanwhile, where Harry and Malfoy just left, pansy and Ron meet up and head to the woods together.

* * *

An hour later, Malfoy is reading a book, The Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C. S. Lewis, a delightful story write that contains a number of symbols. It's surprisingly interesting—for a muggle book, that is.

He's quite content.

Finishing homework early that day gave him a tremendous amount of time to utilize for his own entertainment. And to make the situation better, there aren't any voices to annoy him or complain about how Gryffindorks are idiots, Roosterteeths are insolent, and Huffle-no-puffs need to grow a pair—just peaceful. Tranquil.

SLAM!

"DRAAAAAYYYYYYY!"

Draco groans, resisting the rather tempting urge to hit his head over and over again and successions. HE goes to the rather logical method and rubs his temples.

"Dray," cries Pansy, faint tears welling up. "It's horrible," she sobs, flinging her pig-like self clumsily at him.

He questions the way she was raised. _Surely_ the Parkinsons didn't raise their daughter to be all snotty and icky with emotional tendencies. He sighs, realising how idiotic that is. He has known her since they were little. Of course she's going to be a melodramatic bint.

"What's wrong," he asks, alarm in his voice when she starts hiccupping. She never cries like this…then again, as the previous thought dictated. She _is_ rather dramatic. He remembers. There was this one time that she—

"Draco! Didn't you hear what I said," she asks, fear in her eyes.

He shakes his head, watching her eyes widen like large saucers. _This is getting boring,_ he thinks to himself, watching her make a mess of herself.

"H-he…H-h-he…" she stutters, tears coming back up into her eyes as she tries to say something—and failing epically at it.

He could be reading his book right now. He's right at the part where they're in the battle against the witch. Or maybe he can go down to the kitchen and drink tea. Oh how nice that would be. Hmmm, do the house elves still cater at this time of night? They probably do, they're always eager to bring something to hungry students. Slaves his arse.

"R-Ron…"

Oh is she still on that?

Maybe he can take his broom for a little spin. Surely Headmistress McGonagoll won't mind, as long as the Ministry won't find out. Curfew hasn't set yet—there's still about 20 minutes left, a fair enough time for a spin, after all, he _is_ a prefect, so he can use that to his own benefit.

Pansy says something strange and he jerks his head to her teary, piggy face.

"What is it Pansy," he asks in exasperation.

"Weasel has no soul," she whispers in terror, proceeding to bawl, getting her tears and snot all over his silk shirt that was imported from Italy.

Yeh. No one would miss him for fifteen minutes.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, there are plenty of grammatical and spelling errors, and yes I did intend it to be funny ((not sure if I achieved it)). Reviews would be appreciated and see you guys next time! XD


	3. Ch 2 Red vs Blue

**A/N: **See! I told you I would update! BWAHAHAHAHAH! So here's chapter 2, Red vs Blue ((no, I did not mean to make it rhyme)) with a bunch of grammatical and spelling errors. I did try to fix it up as best as I could, but if you see anything horrible that might mark the end of the world as we know it, tell me. THANKS! XD

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter nor Darker than Black. They go to their respective owners. Also, I do not own Red vs. Blue. Below is a small excerpt alluding to it. Feel free to watch RvB on youtube under the username: Roosterteeth.

* * *

"_We're playing for the fight'__s emotional game_

_I'm turning off my eyes and hiding my shame."_

_-_A Neverending Dream, Cascada.

* * *

Draco curls his lip in disgust, staring at the flat surface of what muggles call a teleevizion—or however the bloody hell you say it. Blaise told them it's called a telly for short. He installed it into his room, somehow getting passed the magic wards that keep muggle technology from working. Whatever he did worked: it's flashing with bright colours with no interferences.

Damn muggle contraption.

He glowers at the screen as another explosion pulses from the large boxes on both sides of the telly. He's very much insulted. His eyes narrow in distaste, watching the character in front of him die…again. A muffled laugh comes out of Blaise.

"You really suck at this," he chortles in glee at Draco's misery.

Draco shoots him a scathing look. "Sod off."

He just shrugs, going back to mauling Draco's character. Oh how much the blond wants to wipe that smirk off his face with a 100 ton hippogriff. It would make him think twice before laughing at him.

Somehow Blaise managed to get the prude pureblood to play Halo 4 with him—a game that he found to love when he visited his cousins in America. He's been addicted to it ever since, and Draco isn't exactly easing the addiction by the way he's so horribly losing. It's hilarious. Not only did he drag an unwilling Draco, but Pansy, Theodore, Millicent and Daphne are also participating in the game.

His character, clad in red armour, holds a shotgun, climbing into a warthog before running over Draco's blue soldier. Another eloquent curse elicits from the blonde's mouth and Blaise snickers.

The blond sneers at his handheld device thingy and waits for his character to rematerialize. After a lot of hitting and threatening, Blaise finally agrees to set up teams. So now there are two teams, to Draco's luck, one consisting of Nott, Millicent, Draco and Pansy and the other holding Daphne, Blaise, and Daphne's younger sister who, along with her friend, decided to leave the game 10 minutes ago.

Blaise tried to redo the teams only to be yelled at by Pansy and Draco.

So now Draco is trudging through the Gulch, miraculously surviving for ten whole minutes. He finally finds Blaise and they have a standoff with a promise of only firearms in their duel.

"_**BOOM"**_

Of course that doesn't happen, since Draco sucks at the game.

Draco turns to Blaise after watching his character get shot from a tank, but the Italian turns to him in confusion and surprise.

"I didn't do that," is all he can muster from the surprising death.

From their left, a boyish laugh sounds in a flurry of snorts. The Malfoy heir's mouth drops open in sick horror.

"You team killing fucktard," Pansy yells at Nott, brandishing her wand in a flurry of anger. How _dare_ he kill Draco! Impudent bastard!

"Wait. Who turned on friendly fire," Blaise wonders aloud.

Millicent snorts. Everyone's eyes turn to her—some in amusement, some in wonder, and others in betrayal. Her eyes widen with false innocence. "I've never played this game before," he simpers, whilst killing Nott's character with an expert throw of a grenade. A thundering explosion interrupts the silence.

"Lying bint," Nott mutters, his voice sulking as he waits for his character to regenerate.

Her eyes flash dangerously and she flicks her wand discretely, watching with morbid fascination as boils painfully erupt on his face. His scream is mixed with surprise and pain.

"Son of a bitch," he howls, covering his face.

She sticks her tongue out triumphantly, only to freeze and fall down, petrified. Daphne sneers at her fallen figure in contempt.

_Son of a bitch_, the girl thinks in anger as Daphne turns back to the screen mildly.

Daphne grins evilly as she controls her character to take Millicent's very tempting sword. _Bitch, that's what you get for hurting Nott,_ she thinks darkly, even though she takes no move to help the poor boy from his pain and agony.

Suddenly the girl cries out in horror as pain laces her body. "Son of a bitch," she gasps out, her vision blurring red as she tries reaching for her wand, which was inconveniently kicked far away from her reach by a black designer boot.

_Pansy._

"I'm a girl," she hisses with a scowl. It contorts back into a pleasant smile as she plops onto a green, plush sofa. _That's for trying to hit on Dray_.

Blaise frowns at his friends. He doesn't like this at all. Nope. Not one bit; they're not supposed to be killing each other _physically_. Only figuratively. He really doesn't want to hex Pansy, but she must learn not to hex people in his room. With a suffered sigh, he flicks his wand.

She falls onto the ground with a loud thud.

He cringes at the sight of her eyes, burning in fury. He can already hear her yelling in his mind and the one distinct phrase that everyone has been using. _I'm really going to regret this_, he thinks mournfully.

His body suddenly shudders and his vision bleeds white.

"You shouldn't go around, magicking fellow Slytherins," Draco scolds with pleasure, staring at the twitching figure at his feet with sadistic glee. "Naughty, naughty."

"Son of a bitch," Blaise growls, his vision still marred by white.

Draco flushes. "That's my mother you're talking about neanderthal!"

He turns to the screen, his eyes locking onto Blaise's character. His heart beats quickly, palpable, as he strolls up to the man. _Finally!_ He breathes in excitement, raising the sword he took from Millicent's red character a while back.

He pauses, savouring the moment and swings it, and then…

the lights turned off…

"Son of a bitch," he yells in anger, jamming the buttons, trying futilely to get back to the almost victory. The screen doesn't turn back on.

In rage, he chucks the remote at the screen. Sparks explode from the large hole in the telly. But that doesn't ease the anger bubbling in his stomach and mind.

* * *

"I'm sensing...an angry and irate blond who is in a rage quitting phase."

Ron frowns and looks down at his Divination notes. With an uncaring shrug, he writes down Harry's speculation while Hermione stares at them both with her mouth agape.

"You're seriously not going to submit that," she asks, thought it sounds more like a statement. "I'm not in that class and _I_ know that's just made up."

She folds her arms across her chest.

They've been doing homework for an hour, completing a dratted Potions essay and a DADA essay with the help of the Gryffindor brainiac. Since they've already started working, they just went onto Divination to write down daily predictions about the present. It's completely rubbish, but they have to do it nonetheless.

"'Mione, it doesn't matter. It's something to write down and I actually think it's happening," Harry says in a serious manner. He puts away his quills and parchments, Ron doing the same. "It's better than the usual 'some-just-was-brutally-murdered-by-a-man-eating-d olphin-in-the-desert' and either way the she-bat believes it. No harm no foul." He stops thoughtfully. "And now it's telling me to grab something to eat."

Ron grins

"You can't do that," she objects, hands on her hips. "You just had dinner and it's passed curfew."

"Relax 'Mione, it's not like we're going to get caught," Ron says, following Harry to the entrance of the common room. "Hey. We'll bring you something back."

Her cheeks puff out in indignation, watching the painting close. A moment passes and she chases after them in an exasperated huff to the waiting men. The invisibility cloak lifts a fraction to let her in. She pointedly ignores the freckled Gryffindor's grin as they trail down the corridor to the kitchen.

15 minutes later, the Golden Trio emerge from behind the pear, Hermione's nose wrinkled in evident disgust as the other two munch greedily on treacle tarts. From down the hall, they see a quick dark movement, disappearing down to the left. She frowns, copying Harry's expression of curiosity.

He quickly downs the pastry with pumpkin juice and chases after it, a voice echoing with a hiss in his head. When he turns the corner, he barely evades a wand that almost pokes his eye out. They come face to face with a scowling Parkinson and an impassive Zabini.

"You shouldn't be out," Hermione says, her voice rising in suspicion. "It's passed curfew."

"Up yours, Granger," Parkinson hisses, her eyes flashing with…is that _worry?_ What the hell are they worried about? "And anyway, can't be in trouble. Prefects, remember? Or has your brain become as muddled as your atrocious hair?"

"For your information, we're prefects too," Ron shoots back.

"But Golden Boy isn't," she sneers. A look of triumph flash across her face as Hermione gives Harry a look of dreaded realisation. "Oh, what would the Headmistress say if she were to find out the precious _Boy-Who-Lived_"—she snarls the words with distain—"has been out pass curfew, endangering his life for just a morsel."

"Why are you here," Harry counters before Ron could retort.

The same feature of worry appears on her face before it's hidden with a heated glare. She opens her mouth to say something—probably biting—but Zabini cuts her off.

"Let's go back," he says, his voice uncertain. He fidgets uncomfortably under her death glare but then she sighs in defeat. With a scowl, she follows him back to the Slytherin room, but not before shooting one hesitant glance down the hall.

Harry stares at their figures while Hermione admonishes Ron for his disappointing conduct—"house unity"…"I swear Ron"…"Don't let them rile you up." It's after a moment he finally hears an annoyed his. He looks both ways in surprise and the hiss comes again, more annoyed and urgent.

_**Down here ssspeaker**_

He looks down, with a look of bewilderment, to find a small green snake glaring at him—at least that's what it seemed, if snakes could glare. Male, he suspects, admiring the neon sheen in the dim light of the torches.

_**What,**_ he asks in surprise after a moment, completing missing what it just said.

It flicks its forked tongue out in irritation. _**The Malfoy boy—man**_**,** it amends after a moment, thoughtfully.

_**What's going on,**_Harry enquires, trying to keep up with the slithering serpent.

_**Before you decided to rudely interrupt, mistress Pansy and master Blaise were trying to look for Master Draco,**_ it hisses. _**I was tracking him and they left me!**_ Harry blinks. It suspiciously sounded like a whine.

They turn another corner and Harry pushes himself—rather reluctantly—up the stairs to follow the serpent. They finally stop and it's after a tiring and wheezing moment for air, Harry realises where they are. It's a bit hazy, but if he remembers correctly, it's the room that hosted the Mirror of Erised before it was moved by Dumbledore's orders.

The snake's forked-tongue flicks and it turns its head to a figure, huddled and enveloped in the silver-blue moonlight from the arched windows.

"Malfoy," he finally asks, taking a step forward, only to be stopped by a small, non-venomous nip on his foot.

The serpent seems slightly hesitant on letting the Gryffindor continue, but after a moment, it nods.

The closer he gets to the still figure, the more he realises the warming temperature of the room. There's a flickering glow of light in from of Malfoy and Harry finds himself gazing at the way the light glistens warmly off his white, alabaster face and how it dances along his cheek bones, glinting brightly in his dull eyes.

"Malfoy," he repeats, tentatively reaching for the Slytherin's shoulder, but hesitating before making contact. He doesn't, in fear that the blond might jump into the flames from the touch. The only thing he can do right now is wait.

It's quite strange, now that he thinks about it. He'd be the last person to look for the prat. Ron would probably try to scare him into the flames and would only repent later from Hermione's never-ending harangue.

After a long, agonizingly silent minute later, the blond jerks up, in a rigid movement, from his trance, falling backwards with a choked scream. He stares at the fire with fear. A rustle to his left makes him realise that he's not alone.

"Potter?" He blinks, his mouth falling open. They stare at each other, waiting for the other to say something. "Oh sh—" He quickly puts out the flames that were threatening to spread.

"I never knew you were such a pyromancer…though I do believe that they don't dumbly stare at the flames that might kill them," Harry finally says.

The other flinches at the comment. "Me either," he says sullenly, tucking his legs to his body in a position that his father would definitely not approve of. "Then again, when have you ever seen me with a lighter?" He tries to keep his voice light, but knows that Harry doesn't believe him.

Harry looks at him with concern etched on his face. "This room…this room held a special mirror once. It showed what you most desired," he says, his voice melancholic, remembering how he would stare in it and see his family waving at him with smiles. Malfoy looks up at him with suspicion and awe. "I saw it my first year." Asoft smile melts on his face, remembering the warm memory as if it was yesterday.

The blond nods numbly. "What did you see?"

"My parents," he says solemnly, not wanting to add the whole line of his ancestors into the mix.

"The Mirror of Desire," Malfoy says, his voice distant.

Harry gives him a started look, blinking. He nods dumbly and they sit there in compatible silence.

It's strange. Sitting with Malfoy like this without animosity between them—it's actually quite nice. A small hiss reminds the brunette that they're not as alone as they thought and Malfoy turns to the sound in surprise.

"Winston," he asks as the reptile hisses, glad that the blond acknowledged him.

Harry stares at him in confusion. "The snake's name is _Winston?_"

It sniffs derisively, as if insulted by the blatant questioning of his name.

"But he's a muggle," Harry protests, stunned that Parkinson would name her snake that.

Draco scowls at the Gryffindor's audacity to question the name. "We're not that prejudice. It's better than having him Hitler or any other idiotic name. Winston sounds respectable and established, and he seems to like it."

It slithers up his arm with a pleased hiss at the heir.

Harry flushes in embarrassment and for some strange reason, Malfoy can't help but think it's quite cute—platonically of course… Dammit. He isn't attracted to him at all! Sure, he _is_ attractive, but he _isn't_ attracted _to_ the bloody git.

"By the way, why _are _you here?" He has calmed down a while ago from the minor…discrepancy of his character. His eyebrow is quirked in a questioning fashion at the Gryffindor.

"Winston—" He coughs, clearing his throat. His voice came out unusually rough. "Winston brought me. You see…" He explains everything to Malfoy who just stands quietly, listening to the brunette's prattling.

When Harry finishes, the Slytherin all but scowls. "Those blithering, nosey—" He sees Harry's reproachful expression and stops his sentence to explain. "They're nice people, Blaise and Pansy, and I appreciate it that they looked for me but…" He trails off, his hands flinging wildly around as he tries to explain.

Harry resists to the urge to laugh at Malfoy's antics. "Hmmm," he says in a reassuring tone, and for some reason, Malfoy feels reassured.

"Ummm…we should get going," he says awkwardly with a cough, interrupting the impending silence between them.

They walk down the stairs and corridors in compatible silence before splitting ways.

"Thanks," Malfoy says hastily, concealing his nervousness. He leaves the surprised Gryffindor, Winston coiling around his neck, hissing something in his ear that he doesn't understand.

Harry feels his stomach warm, the unfamiliar bubbling sensation threatening to break out as a smile. It's strange. To hear Malfoy—his archnemesis—speak to him without a single snarky comment, and then thank him… It's unlike anything he really ever experienced before. Sure, he's been thanked before—thousands of times to be exact—but when Malfoy said it…

Something must seriously be wrong with him.

Dammit.

* * *

"I don't care," Hermione hisses in a low whisper to Harry. "You _can't_ write that down." Her eyes glare at the journal in his hands.

Harry frowns at her. "It's not like she's going to care. And you abhor that class, so why should you care?" His reminder of how she threw the glassball down the stairs in fury the last time she was in the class makes her flush red.

"But I—"

"Look at that Pansy," a voice sneers. The two turn to see Malfoy, Zabini and Parkinson, walking towards them as if they own the place. "Seems like Granger thinks she actually has some talent in the ludicrous subject, _Divination._"

"Sod off Malfoy," growls Ginny, shooting him a look of pure loathing.

He gives her a look of surprise, a grin spreading over his face. "Look! Seems like the Weaselette is trying to talk to us." He earns a cackle of laughter from Parkinson while Zabini shakes his head, a smile creeping across his face. "Don't strain yourself. You need to keep that little head of yours on straight," he patronizes with a simpering tone.

"For your information," the ginger huffs, brushing off the last part, "she doesn't have to follow a phoney to be smart. And Harry's just—"

"Oh yes. The Golden Boy," Parkinson croons. "What did you write down?" She snatches Harry's journal from the table before anyone could stop her, earning a look of amusement from Malfoy. After reading it, the Gryffindors just glare at her all the while, she starts to laugh.

Ginny turns red and Harry looks at them in confusion, feeling the muddling urge to sink down into the ground and out of sight, but strangely unbothered by the fact that he just got his journal frisked. A snort of laughter erupts from Zabini as he reads the chicken-scrawl.

"Draco," he chortles, handing the journal to the suspicious blond who takes it in silence. Other than the slight pinking of his usually pale cheeks, his face is passive. "Oh come on. Admit it. It's hysterical."

"Yes, very funny," he says dryly, reading the entry back over with a look of disdain. "However, it's too bad that he left out the part where the blond hexed an idiotic and immature Italian."

Zabini stops and a scowl forms on his face. Parkinson snickers.

"Oh shut up Pansy," Zabini snaps. She just sticks her tongue out at him and clings tighter to Malfoy for protection.

Hermione frowns at their behaviour while the others are a mix of confusion and rage. She picks up the journal that Malfoy has dropped—in surprise when Parkinson tightened her hold around his arm. She doesn't understand what's so funny. It's just about a blond ragequitting—wait.

_Blond._

Her eyes flicker to Malfoy's pale, blond hair. It's then she understands. _Blond._

When she laughs, Ron and Ginny stare at her, both thinking that their friend finally broke from all the studying she has done in the past years.

"Blond," she giggles, clutching her stomach, letting Ron and Ginny take the journal. Ron snickers while Ginny frowns at the writing. Harry stares at Malfoy in sudden realisation, a smile cracking across his face, making the Slytherin's scowl deepen.

"Sure," he mutters in annoyance, "laugh at the blond, why don't you?"

"I knew you were dramatic, but this?" Ron cackles in glee.

All of the sudden, a shriek pierces the air like nails dragged across a chalkboard.

"What the hell Pansy?!" Malfoy demands, clutching his ringing ears.

"RED!" Is all she yells before running at top speed down the hallway, leaving a trail of dust in her wake.

Malfoy turns and stares thoughtfully at ginger. He smirks. "Soulless arse."

He turns to the direction that Parkinson ran, Zabini following him with indiscreet looks at him.

Ron turns red.

* * *

It has been three full days since Harry has run into Malfoy and it was quite relaxing. There were no arguments, no ignorant contentions nor bouts with the Slytherins, nor any kind of mishaps involving him being hexed or verbally abused. Of course, during his musings, he bumps into someone.

"This has got to stop, Potter. If we keep bumping into each other, I insist that I must be on top," a snarky voice says with a sneer.

Harry scowls and moves to get up, only to elicit a groan from the other. He freezes. Looking down, he realises how compromising their position is. _Fuck_, he curses in his head, staring at Malfoy's calculating look with slight apprehension. Taking a deep breath, he notes the situation with morbid intrigue.

Shifting a bit, he gets another groan from the man on the bottom.

No doubt, as Malfoy pointed out, he's on top of the latter. He can feel pressure on the inside of his thigh and another on the outside. If he were to shift his head lower, he'd be hearing a clearer sound of the other's heartbeat, palpable and drumming in a rapid pattern. Malfoy's apple and mint breath brushes his face and he can't help but stare into his stormy grey eyes, finding them hypnotising.

Damn. He _is_ crazy.

With careful, thought out movements, he manoeuvres his body off the blond, finding himself quite disappointed by the way the other's movements seem more stiff. Malfoy makes a noncommittal grunt and dusts the imaginary particles of dirt off his robes. He suddenly freezes.

Harry frowns and stares at him for a moment before turning his head. A previously unlit torch sparks into bright blue flames. His head whips back to Malfoy in surprise.

The Slytherin's eyes are grey hazed mist, staring at Harry. No. That's not right. They're looking _through_ Harry, seeing something else that isn't there. It's almost like he has no pupils and Harry feels chills run down his neck, prickling in scurries of ant legs. It's frightening. He's not frightened, per say, but he's frightened for the boy who's staring at non-existent space.

With pulling hesitation, he gingerly touches the blond, who in turns, jerks sporadically from the light brush. The movement is quick and alarming, but he finds himself relieved when light and life slowly seeps into existence and he breathes out the breath that he didn't know he was holding.

Malfoy gives him a look of sudden confusion then a scowl mars his face.

"Try not to be so…_clumsy_," Malfoy says with a frown, confusion edging his words.

Harry numbly nods and watches the Malfoy heir walk pass him with a huff. All of the sudden, his hand reaches out and clasps onto his robes. The blond turns, looks down at Harry's hand, then his face with a quirked eyebrow.

Oh Salazar. What should he do?

"Where are you going," he blurts out, cursing his impulses internally.

"To Divination," Malfoy replies, amusement in his eyes.

"Oh," he says rather smartly, letting go of the cloak.

Malfoy nods. His head turns slowly to the side, and for some strange reason, Harry believes he's looking at the Divination Tower, beyond the bricks and passages of Hogwarts.

"Something's going to happen," he suddenly says, his voice eerie, sending chills down Harry's spine. His head snaps forward and the click of his heels drowns out the brunette's thoughts. "Be careful Harry." His voice is tight, as if he knows something that Harry doesn't. "Be careful."

It's not until Harry walks silently down the hall, up the Divination tower, and seats himself beside Ron does he realise that Malfoy said his name.

* * *

"Mr Finnegan, after you drop one of the crystal balls, please let Ms Brown take out one instead. They're very expensive," Professor Trelawney says, breezing in between tables swabbed in light, minty green fabric. She changed them last year, something about how her inner eye told her that she must change them this colour. "Now, once you've collected the required materials, please get together with your partner…" Groans fill the air, rising over her voice as she continues to speak with unblinking eyes.

Ron nudges Harry with an apologetic look as he collects his paraphernalia to join a petrified Parkinson.

"As much as I know you enjoy my presence, you need to get our supplies," Draco drawls slowly.

Harry resists the urge to hit the man, grinding out with clenched teeth, "Why can't you? Too _spoiled_? Let the house elves do _everything_?"

He stills. Malfoy frowns and opens his mouth to refute Harry's intolerant and impudent words with something scathing, but closes it, changing his mind, knowing it wouldn't do any good to argue with the prat. Without another word, he viciously grabs the supplies and brings them back to their table. The crystal ball is as shiny and as normal as ever, showing neither hints nor desires to change and help them predict the future.

"Why the bloody hell do we need to do this," Malfoy growls, glaring at it with distaste.

Harry inwardly agrees, but sighs, "It'll be helpful in the future…maybe."

"Yes, because everyone is going to become a seer and spout useless, trivial nonsense," Malfoy says dryly. After staring at Harry's bemused expression, he frowns and returns his gaze to the orb—of which isn't even trying to help them predict the bloody future. "What do you see?"

Harry stares at it intently, resisting the impulse to redirect his eyes to Malfoy's lovely, silver, luminescent—stop _it!_ Don't get distracted!

His gaze intensifies into a glare and to his surprise, mist starts to swirl inside of it, glowing, twinkling speaks blooming into the glass, glowing brighter and brighter, then falling in streaks of white. A figure rises in the mist and he can't help but feel terror prickle his spine as it starts to move towards a large wall, looming against the dark skies that are brightened by city lights glowing against—

"…_Potter_."

Harry looks up to find Malfoy's eyes staring at him with…worry? But why would he be worried? It seems as if—sadly the Gryffindor doesn't get to finish the thought process as a voice interrupts.

"How strange Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy. It seems as if something bad is going to happen." Mrs Trelawney's misty voice comes up behind them, nearly startling Harry from his seat.

"How is that strange," Malfoy interrupts with annoyance laced in his voice. The old hag always says that something might happen that will bring their downfall or death.

She blinks. "It seems that there will be a meteor shower."

Harry just stares at her in utter confusion and opens his mouth to ask something, but she leaves without another look. When he spares Malfoy a glance, the boy looks considerably pale.

The bell finally rings and when Malfoy walks by him—Harry's packing his bags beside a chattery Ron—he can hear the Slytherin mutter, "no…not yet. It hasn't happened yet…"

* * *

With caution, Draco takes the book that he found about mysterious Contractors and Dolls to the Come and Go Room, wishing for a private place where unwanted people won't intrude on him. With a bated breath, he opens it to a random page.

The book seems to always know what he wants to know—no. What he _needs _ to know. If he didn't know better, the book was specifically made for him, sent for him…but from whom?

Shaking his head, he focuses on the text before him.

_The Syndicate. Outranking the United States in power, this mysterious organisation train and utilises Contractors and dolls for valuable objects and information. As well as other organisations, they will do _everything_ that they need or think is necessary._

_P.A.N.D.O.R.A. ((Physical Alternation Natural Deconstruction Organised Research Agency))is an UN-operated research facility dedicating itself to studying the phenomenon surrounding Hell's Gate. Not the only agency that has examined the abnormal properties of the gate, the Syndicate and the CIA have infiltrated the facility focused on almost every level of research taken and adhered by P.A.N.D.O.R.A._

Draco takes a deep breath, hoping for something different with anxiousness in his every movement.

_Moratoria._

_Known as an intermediate between both a Contractor and a Doll, they don't required obeisance as part of their growing power; however, unlike Contractors, they are unable to control their powers as they shift into a hypnotic state of unconsciousness and they also don't give off the Lancelnopt Synchotron radiation nor the usual red glow in Contractors' eyes when using their unstable powers. They suffer tremendous mental trauma as a result of being able to retain a normal, human entity. An unknown source stated that the chance of a Moratorium becoming a Contractor is very rare, but not impossible._

_During the process, they also gain a Contract and adopt the placid and self-preserved mentality of a Contractor. Due to their instability, government organisations would do everything in their hands to incarcerate them, for the danger they pose to civilians and the eventual danger that they will pose once they're able to control and adhere their ability for their own gain._

_However, there's a possibility of losing one's power. Those who lose their gift are called Forfeiters. They exchange their power for a glimmering hope for the normal life they had before the Change. Though the occurrences are often rare, it's not impossible to regain oneself, though the loss will be regained if the person steps back into the Gate._

Draco shakes his head for a moment. It's too good to be true…but.

He shuts the book and takes deep breaths in hopes to slow his heart rate.

But…

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you so much for reading this loves! 3


	4. Ch 3 A Fire Spreads Despite a Boy's Cry

**A/N:** Hey guys! It's Kitcat! I didn't update earlier because I went to Disney with my marching band, then I was dragged into a homework mania. ^^; And of course, band practice doesn't help a lot with writing... However, I'm proud to present the third chapter of CTI. :)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I own Hetalia. They go to their respective authors.

* * *

"_I lied, wrote my injuries all in the dust_

_In my heart is the five of us_

_In White Houses.__"_

-White Houses, Vanessa Carlton

* * *

"Draco," Pansy pleads, "Just join us on the break. You don't have to go back to—"

Draco puts up his hand, his silver eyes hard. She stops talking and Blaise tries to reason instead.

"Look mate. I understand that you want to go back to the Manor, but—"

Draco gives them a look of confusion. "Wait…is this what it's been all about? Me going back to the Manor?" He lets out a choked laugh, making Pansy's eyes bulge out and Blaise splutters something incoherent. "You don't have to worry. I won't be going to the Manor." _I can't…not yet,_ he thinks to himself.

A strained silence falls between them until Blaise speaks up, his voice cautious and hesitant. "Where will you be going?"

"London."

* * *

It's winter and Harry finds himself dragged into a plan to travel with Ron and Hermione to London. Usually they don't take trips—no, they _never_ take trips—but Hermione has convinced them to get out of the confines of the castle. Of course, who was Ron to argue against her? And since Ron will be going, Harry must go also.

It seems that's the logic lately.

"I want to come," Ginny whines, her lips pouty.

Ron clears his throat nervously at Harry's agitated look.

"Look Gin. You can't come," Harry says, his voice borderline exasperation.

"Why not? The war's over. You don't have to protect me anymore," she argues. "Ron. Tell him!"

Her brother chokes and he rubs his neck. "Sorry Gin, but we just want it to be the three of us. Anyway, it's a Ministry thing, so you can't come either way." Her eyes flash dangerously and she turns, stomping up the tower stairs to the girl's room. Ron sighs. "I'm not sure what you want, but you can't just keep putting it off forever."

Harry doesn't say anything. There's nothing really needed to be said. If they're meant to be together, then she needs to wait and be patient. Ron understands that, but it doesn't qualm the want that he has to be Harry's brother—legally.

It's after a moment of Ron's emotional silence that radiates around the area that Harry decides to take a walk. The snow has fallen on Hogwarts's grounds in soft flurries, leaving a perfect sheet of fresh whiteness to be marred by the raucous of footprints. It's a winter wonderland—barely…that is.

With his mind set in determination, he walks to the lake.

It's covered in a thin layer of snow, overlaying a thick layer of ice and if one looks closely, they might be able to see some fish bobbing towards the surface, a mermaid's pointy grin or a row of the many tentacles of the friendly Giant Squid wanting to say "hi."

Flicking his wand slightly, a warm spell hovers over a small patch of yellowed grass where he kicked the melting snow. It's been a while since he was able to sit like this: alone. In _peace_. But the last time he was able to do this was on the Hocrux hunt with Ron and Hermione.

He shudders from the bitter memory.

It sometimes haunts him. In his thoughts, in his dreams, to the brink it's hard to sleep. His scar has stopped burning, and for that, he's happy, but there are still nightmares.

His mind wanders.

Ginny has become too clingy for his liking, lately. He does love her, he truly does, but not in the way she loves him. It's become a daily hassle whenever she comes to talk to him. It's always about the war that he wants to forget and how he's allowed to date her without any repercussions that aren't there.

It would be easier to date her if she would just stop annoying him. And the perfume she wears reeks—something like a cross between daisies and daffodils and Pegasus piss. It's horridly pungent and it seems like her friends don't have the guts to tell her. Poor girl—to go through such lengths for a boy who doesn't have the time for her, nor want to have a relationship with her.

She thinks she knows best. She'd probably put Voldemort in a tutu and have him dance the tango if she thought it would have made the world a better place. She'd also probably decorate the Malfoy Manor with pink and colourful displays of whatever she wants.

But she doesn't understand.

The war has made him think a great deal about the future. He doesn't want to marry too quickly like Bill and Fleur. It would be too much for him if he were to marry Ginny that quickly, and now after a year of not dating…his feelings for her have faded from desire and marital love to brotherly and sisterly love.

Of course Ron wants him to date her—the git finds it idiotic that he won't at least try to have a relationship with her again, but he knows the boy needs time to breathe and sort out his feelings: the amount of time that Ginny doesn't seem to want to give him.

With an elongated sigh Harry gets up from his spot. In two hours, they'll be on their way to muggle London. Hermione's ecstatic; Ron's happy to get more time with her; Harry will not doubt have muddled feelings and a migraine the whole time.

He's up the second set of stairs when a girl's voice calls out to him with a screech. He sighs in relief when it's Hermione, but his face darkens when he sees the seriousness in her features. Parkinson is right behind her, as well as Zabini. They both look as if they attended a funeral.

"What happened? Did Malfoy die," he asks.

"Harry, they need to speak to you," she says, ignoring his words.

Parkinson shoots him a scathing look for the comment before it morphs into a look a worry, and she doesn't miss the exchange between the two Gryffindorks. Yes Griffindorks. Granger makes up in the intelligence area for what Potter lacks.

With a slight wave of his wand, Zabini says, "What's going on with Draco?"

It takes a moment for the dazed Gryffindor to register what the boy said. What does he mean? What's going on with Malfoy?

"What," he rasps. He clears his throat. "I don't understand."

"Don't give me that bull shit," Parkinson hisses. "I know you found him with Winston. He told me everything."

_Winston or Draco?_ He doesn't believe that Parkinson is Parseltongue, so it must have been Malfoy…but it would be very strange if it were Malfoy.

"Look. I don't know what you're talking about, but I never talked to Malfoy," Harry grinds out, his teeth clenched, ignoring the inquiring look from Hermione, who can't hear their conversation at all.

There's no doubt that she'll have questions later.

Zabini's mouth tightens into a thin line, but he just walks away with a superfluous turn of his cloak. Parkinson looks frantically between the two, as if something about her House-mate's behaviour is abnormal, before following him down the nearly deserted corridor. But before her interlude, she whispers something in a low voice.

* * *

"What did they want," Hermione finally asks.

She's sitting across from Harry. They're in the train to London and Ron's out getting some snacks for them. She has been worried at first, making Ron gather some snacks for them with muggle currency, but she needs to speak with Harry. It's imperative that she knows what's going on. She's worried about him, and the fact that the two Slytherins from Malfoy's posse confronted him about something that she knows not of is irritating her to the utmost extent.

Meanwhile, her nosiness is grinding its way past irritation point in Harry's mind, making him hesitate before responding. "They wanted to apologise for what they did during the war," he finally says, remembering about Pansy's role in the war. He's not so sure about Zabini though.

Hermione's eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue, torn between whether or not he's lying or telling the truth. She can't find any holes in his answer, except the fact that Malfoy wasn't accompanying them. Which was, without a doubt, rude. Harry did vouch for them at their trials when he didn't have to. Ron voted to let them rot in Azkaban, just like the Malfoy Head, which she found a bit harsh, but he should have thanked Harry!

She vaguely remembers the day. It surprised them both when Harry spontaneously disappeared from Grimwauld's, and then turned up in the Prophet's front page: _The Boy-Who-Lived Protected Known Death Eater Family? Imperioused, or Down Right Mad?_ ((No doubt it was the works of Skeeter))

Ron nearly attacked him at their confrontation, but the brunette didn't give them any explanation to his madness.

"At least you threw that old coot into Azkaban," Ron finally said, after a long challenging glare with his best mate. Harry nodded slowly before going upstairs to his room.

From Harry's point of view, he didn't lie. In fact, he was telling the truth, just not all of it; but, he feels that it isn't the time to talk to her about it.

Something flashes in her eyes as she studies his expression and she opens her mouth ot say something, but the train door opens.

Never in his life has he been this grateful for his mate's impeccable ability to interrupt serious and choking situations. Of course, he's exaggerating, however...

Hermione shoots him another look of suspicion before turning her attention to her boyfriend, who's struggling with a handful of snacks.

Finally relieved of his hold, he flops down next to Hermione with a large grin on his face, oblivious to the tense atmosphere in the room. "So, what did I miss?"

"Nothing much," Harry says quickly, biting into a large pastry before Hermione could get a word in edgewise. "So, the Chudley Canons."

Ron's eyes light up as he starts to talk about the last Quidditch game in avid detail. Hermione herself can't help but smile at him, his excitement contagious. They eventually start to go onto other subjects, giving The-Boy-Who-Lived the opportunity to look out of the large, rectangular window and stare at the racing scenery.

_Malfoy has been acting strange, _he thinks, already pointing out the obvious that was accentuated by the Slytherin's friends. But it's not that he really noticed—not that it wasn't noticeable—but that the Malfoy heir seemed nearly pleasant towards him after his little...phases.

He knows he shouldn't be worrying—would that be the right word to use? _Yes,_ he guesses with reluctance, _but it's Malfoy for bloody sake!_ Why should he be worrying about the prat's suspicious health and wellbeing? Deciding that the reason why he's being so unnerved about the whole situation is his hero-complex, his thoughts are momentarily assuaged as he continues onto the other train of thought: Pansy.

He's actually not sure what she said. He believes that she apologised to him...yeh...she did. He's sure of it, but she said something else. Something that he's kind of sceptical of.

"_It's not your fault"_

What did she mean by that? What wasn't his fault? Was she referring to Ginny? No, that couldn't be it, because it's obvious that they hate each other. Maybe it was the war, but of course it was his fault for all of those deaths that happened because he didn't defeat the snakey arse in time. Dammit. What was it?

With an elongated and exasperated sigh, he reverts his attention back to the bantering couple.

The area they've arrived to is a quaint place located on the side of inner London. It's rarely ever visited, and here everyone knows each other. Though lacking in tourists, it is technologically efficient. Tomorrow they will be going into inner London to meet members from the Muggle Interaction and Etiquette with Mundane and Daily Technologies Unit inside the Office of Muggle Objects and Their Usage under Arthur Weasley in the Ministry.

Due to Hermione's insistence, they're at the small café this time—the Kirkland café—conversing about homework that was given to them over the break.

"Here are you latte's," a girl with striking green eyes and dirty blonde hair in pigtails, says with a thick British accent, switching from cockney to the Queen's speech. She's wearing an apron that matches perfectly with the restaurant's theme. "Your scones will be done in a moment." She gives them a smile and walks away from the gawking ginger to greet other costumers at the front.

"Ron!" Hermione scolds, hitting his arm with brute force. Her face is flushed in embarrassment and jealousy.

Ron rubs his arm, scandalised at his girlfriend's accusation.

When she does come back, Harry takes the time to look at her name tag, reading _Alice_ in a clean font.

"Here you go," she chirps, placing the scones with a sweet and delicious aroma in front of them. "Just call for me if you need anything else."

They nod, all taking a buttery and flaky scone eagerly.

"This is really good," Ron moans appreciatively, his mouth full of the pastry. Hermione wrinkles her nose in disgust as he downs it with his latte.

Harry chuckles at them.

The door chimes, opening to a man with shoulder length, wavy blond hair and cerulean eyes. To their pleasant surprise, the once chirpy waitress stomps up to the man before he's able to take a step through the threshold. They can hear the two banter.

Ron calls on her, in a large, unsaid consensus to save the poor girl. She walks up to their table, a scowl on her face.

"Who is that?" Harry asks, watching the man flirt with another girl.

"Francis Bonnefoy," she huffs, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the name. "The French bastard."

They look at her, started by the sudden change in demeanour.

"My brother is married to a French woman. She's really nice," Ron pipes up.

"Yes," Alice gives, "But she's also half veela and she was raised properly." She sniffs then freezes, her eyes widening as she suddenly doubles over.

Francis is by her side in a flash and he quickly picks her up and sits her down in a comfy chair that Harry offers. His eyes show evident worry as Hermione says that she'll call 911, only to be waved down by him.

"Alice," he says, "What's happening?" He ignores the glances of confusion from the trio.

"Fire," she rasps, earning a look of surprise from the Gryffindors. Her eyes turn to Harry, staring at him with burning intensity and urgency. "He needs you."

No question is asked as screams wail against the café's outer limits, yellowing about an invisible fire. The trio rush out amongst the crowd, avoiding as best as they can not to be separated.

"The fire is that was," Hermione says, pushing against the current, her wand out as Ron and Harry copy her.

They start to yell _Aguamente_, trying to qualm the growing flames as best as they can, but the fire keeps building up. From an askew angle, Harry sees a shadow in an alley. He goes to the figure only to run into a wide, silver eyed Malfoy.

"Malfoy?" Harry sputters in surprise.

"Potter?" With no chance to let the other say another word, Harry starts to pull him towards his friends for help, but Malfoy rips his arm out of the Gryffindor's grip. His eyes are wide with a certain emotion that Harry can't seem to place. "Please get away from me," he begs, his voice strange…almost like desperation.

"Why? You need to help put out the—" He gets cut off, finding himself in a daze.

He turns with a heated glare, only to meet the Slytherin's large, surprise eyes. His head slowly turns left, his verdant eyes focusing on a hulking figure who's holding a wand at them. There's a dark, intricate tattoo on the man's left arm, almost hidden by the long sleeves of the guy's cloak, and the brunette instantly understands the situation.

The man cackles, insanity licking each bout of laughter as he raises his wand. "Avada K—"

Harry's eyes are shut and after a moment, he realises that he's still alive. A blood curdling scream hits his ears like a train, peeling back his eardrums. Opening his eyes, he finds Draco Malfoy in front of him and a burning fire slowly and painfully slinking up the cloaked figure's body in pure agony.

Something clicks in Harry's head and he scrambles up from his spot, grabbing Malfoy's pale wrist. "Malfoy. Stop," he commands.

The boy turns his head towards Harry. Harry stops hearing the man's screams, but instead Malfoy's voice that's clear, unlike his vacant eyes. "Why?"

Harry stops, unable to respond. A high pitch noise is in his ear, piercing his head. He turns back to the man, only to find white ash.

"N-no. Ngh." His head whips around in surprise to Malfoy who's clutching his head, staring at the sight before him. "I didn't—" A scream from him rips from his throat, shattering Harry's ears painfully as the boy suddenly apparates away.

His ears are still ringing when Ron and Hermione join him.

"The fire suddenly disappeared," Hermione wheezed, trying to catch her breath. She looks at Harry's wide eyes in surprise. "Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry doesn't say anything, his eyes focused on the charred ground.

* * *

Draco collapses in heap on the cold tile floor. He groans in pain, white blinding him as his migraine becomes worse. The flashes have finally start to diminish as a gasp bangs loudly against his eardrum.

He hears thumping against the ground, mixed with clicking of heels.

"Draco," cries Pansy, running to the fallen figure with Blaise and Theodore at her heels, though Nott's steps are at a slower pace. He stops and nods briskly at Pansy's command: "go get some water and a rag."

Without a word, Blaise lifts Draco and brings him to a couch that Pansy quickly transfigured from a little statue. Draco's breathing is shallow and staggering. She says his name, her voice as calm as she can make it, and he just nods in exhausted acknowledgement. Theo brings cold water and a rag, and they quickly fall into a procedure they were taught so long ago.

*_flash back*_

_Pansy bit her lip and Blaise just stared at the fallen Death Eater blankly. They were to learn healing in the muggle fashion, just incase one of their comrades were hurt and they didn't have their wands._

_She looked at Snape with desperate eyes as the bleeding man groaned in pain, his face sweaty. Snape was overseeing the procedure just incase something were to go wrong._

_From his side, Draco shakily started to get water, giving commands to the stricken Parkinson who just followed the orders without protest._

_It happened repeatedly and one day, Pansy got tired of it and said, "What does he think he's doing? He's being bloody idiotic._

_An hour later, after the procedure, Wormtail came and said that the Dark Lord summoned her and Draco to see him. When they got to the audience chamber, the Dark Lord questioned her on her loyalties and decided punishment was in order for her vulgar and disloyal display towards him._

_She had closed her eyes, waiting for the monster to shoot a hex of some kind at her, but what happened was much more horrible than that. A loud, chilling scream pierced the room and her eyes shot open when she felt warm, sticky liquid hit her robes and arms._

_Draco, her best friend, her first friend, was lying at her feet, his blood pooling rapidly on the cold onyx floor. It was all she could do to prevent herself from screaming Draco's name as Narcissa's shrill cries echo through the empty room._

_It was cold, cruel laugh that shook her out of her shock._

_She was to heal him without a wand, following the painfully slow muggle procedure with desperation and anxiousness beating down her neck. Snape was prevented to help her at all, even though she knew how much he wanted to. Instead, he would sneer at her every time she would pick up the wrong instrument—but she knew, oh how she knew it, it was the closest thing he could do to help her._

_But it did prepare her. She became wary of the Dark Lord more so than she was before. And that was when she started to support Potter's cause. If he could stop the monster from attacking her friends and the ones she loves, then she'll help him no matter what._

_*end of flashback*_

After agonising minutes of checking over Draco, they finally are satisfied and relieved that he's okay. Draco's eyes flicker open and his head turns to them.

His mouth opens in a whisper as he says something that chills them to their bones, his ashen pallor accentuating the tense and razor sharp words.

"_Sorg Due_"

* * *

**A/N: **And that's the third chapter. Please review :D


	5. Hopeless Questions Answered by a Book

**A/N:** Hey guys! Here's chapter 4 of Colder Than Ice. Enjoy~ :)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter nor Darker than Black. They go to their respective owners.

* * *

"I had a rosey dream;

I gave on you

And you gave up on me."

-Panic! at the Disco

* * *

After that incident, Harry never saw Malfoy during his stay in London. He was disappointed, for some strange reason, that he didn't see the anomalistic boy again. With a sigh, he grabs his books and joins Ron and Hermione to Potions.

He hasn't seen Malfoy even in Hogwarts, but he knows he's here. He overheard two Slytherins on his way back from Arithmacy ((by Hermione's force in classes)) with Ron. Parkinson and Zabini were talking about the Malfoy heir in low, hushed voices, but he didn't really catch anything beyond the mentioning of the blond's name.

Professor Slughorn smiles at Harry when he enters the room, but the brunette doesn't notice the cordial greeting. His verdant eyes instead focus on a boy who's staring at the board with a blank expression, as if whatever Parkinson is saying to him is flying over his head.

"Okay, class, today we will be making…"

Harry tunes out, instead to intently focus on Malfoy. The boy looks tired, and he can see faint bags under his eyes. His usually neat and tidy hair isn't as neat and tidy as it usually is, and that worries the Gryffindor. His face is paler than usual, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he hasn't slept for days. Ron's voice kicks him out of his trance and he is told—in the ginger's embarrassment and concern—that he's paired with Malfoy.

To Ron's surprise, he nods and quickly moves to the cauldron that Malfoy has picked. They discussed—Malfoy commanding everything in a quiet voice.

With an alien skip in his step, he goes and gathers the ingredients as Malfoy sets everything up. Harry gives a greeting, unsure what else to say, especially since this is the first time he has seen him since the…he's not even sure what to call it. Malfoy just nods his head.

There's an uncomfortable silence between the two as Harry gradually follows the directions written on the board. It becomes almost suffocating and the fact that the colour of the potion is turning purple instead of yellow is not helping the situation.

"Malfoy," he finally says with a placate frown, "help."

Malfoy tilts his head when he hears the word, his eyes blank and bearing no emotion, though there's a lilt of amusement on his face.

"You can ask nicely," he replies mildly, head still buried in a large tome.

Harry grinds his teeth, controlling himself from groaning in exasperation. "_Please._"

A harsh grin bleeds onto the Slytherin's face, showing a pair of sharp, white canines. He shuts his book and puts it into his bag. With smooth grace, he takes the dropper filled with Dragon Blood and pours it out. Getting up, he collects a bottle with Drakon Blood labelled on it. He adds in some other liquid before adding in the blood. The bubbling potion turns from that atrocious purple to a dandelion yellow.

He shoots Harry a beatific smile just when Slughorn calls for a vial of their concoction.

Harry breathes out in relief as he scoops up some of the liquid and puts a stopper on the vial. From the askance of his eyes, he sees Malfoy walk out of the room, books in hand. Figures that Malfoy would quickly leave without even staying for the results of the potion.

With an unintelligible mutter, Harry leaves Potions and bids an excuse to his friends before following Malfoy down the corridor.

He quickly takes his invisibility cloak out of his bag and throws it on.

They pass dozen of deserted classrooms and wander up several flights of stairs until Malfoy's voice finally cuts the silence.

"I know you're there, Potter."

Harry stops, his invisibility cloak brushing his nose. Mouth falling agape—he swears that he has been quiet—he stares at Malfoy with caution. Mind racing, he makes a choice on what to do.

"Where are you going?" He finally asks, his voice choking on its own words.

"Why are you following me," the blond rebuffs calmly. Just like a Malfoy to answer a question with a question. Watching Harry turn red in embarrassment, he says, "I'm going to the Room of Requirement."

This surprises the Gryffindor. He hasn't seen Malfoy in that room since the war when they were looking for Rowena's diadem. Malfoy ignores the silence from the latter and walks to the Come and Go Room. Harry follows.

When they reach the room, a door appears, revealing a large ballroom filled with tall mirrors. There's no fire for lighting, only a bluish light from…well, Harry's actually not sure where from. Maybe if he were to ask Hermione later…

The mirrors are all different, holding elegant, gaudy, or plain ornaments or decorations of numerous styles.

Malfoy's eyes are quick as they flashing from one piece to another in a searching manner. It's this that distracts Harry enough to accidentally bump into a mirror and create a domino effect of broken glass.

"It seems to be your life's goal to make a mess," Malfoy remarks. "No matter how mediocre it might me."

Harry frowns at this aspersion, his emerald eyes twitching in agitation. "What are you looking for anyway?"

The blond turns back towards him, a small frown on his face. "None of your business."

Harry's face burns red, the colour flaring against his collar bones. His breathing is staggered as he counts in his head and looks at another mirror as a distraction from the sudden impulse to punch the git. The mirrors seem to have a certain familiar quality even though Malfoy would pass them all with disdainful and disparaging looks.

His eyes finally focus on Malfoy's face, how familiar it is in the blue tinted light, just like how it was when Harry found him with Winston as his guide, but there's no fire and the Mirror of Erised isn't here…wait.

It all starts to click in his head as he realises that Malfoy has been looking for _that_ mirror the whole time.

It would be insane to say he's relieved by the revelation, but it's true. At least there's a firm reassurance that the boy isn't trying to find something that might kill someone—not that was his first assumption.

He grins. "Oi, Malfoy." The blond turns his head to Harry, his eyes as soulless as ever. The Gryffindor resists the urge to shudder. "It's not here."

Something flickers behind those foggy eyes and Harry suddenly feels a creep of unease in his stomache.

"What isn't?"

The brunette snorts inwardly at Malfoy's overly cautious tone, but the boy regains his composure, telling Harry that he doesn't need help.

"Fine. I would have taken you directly to the Mirror, but since you don't want my help…"

"Where is it?"

"Nope. Shan't say nothing if you won't say please." Harry grins at Malfoy's face. It's twisting into a deep frown from his gainsay. Those words bring him back to his first year—or was it second—when Peeves save him and his friends from being found by Filch.

Malfoy's teeth grind against each other. "Please," he spits.

Harry's grin widens. "Nothing."

A low, guttural sound bursts from the heir's throat. "You sententious bastard."

Harry raises an eyebrow in a you-are-being-over-dramatic way. It's a large word, and sure he might have a hero's complex and everything, but that doesn't mean he's _sententious._

"You won't find it here. It was moved in First year. It should still be there," he adds in his musings. "And self-righteous? I think you might be referring to me in the wrong context."

Malfoy just stares at him with a blank and heavily unamused expression. Throwing his hands up in defeat, Harry walks towards the door from where they came, beckoning Malfoy to follow. It's after Harry confirms that the seemingly unstable boy isn't going to kill him, he leads them to the room where Fluffy guarded the entrance to the Philosopher's Stone.

It was fairly easy to get through—all of the charms and puzzles were disabled after the incident, and since there isn't any need for them. To say that Harry is relieved by that fact is an understatement: he's not sure he'd be able to cope with going through all the steps with an emotionless drone. The first time was bad enough, and suffix to say, his wizarding chess would probably kill them both—probably ten times over. Facing Voldemort was easier than that. All he had to do was get killed, not strain his brain and then die a painful death.

After a long walk, they arrive to the steps where Harry had to fight Quirrel.

A small shiver runs down his spine at the memory. To his relief—and mild surprise—the mirror is still there. It wasn't as though he didn't expect it to still be there, but it gave him a reason to show Malfoy that he knows what the boy is looking for, and that he isn't as stupid as the blond think he is.

Malfoy just stares at hit, his eyes wide in disbelief and hope, love and…is that sadness? But why would the boy be sad?

The Gryffindor doesn't believe Malfoy has any reason to be sad, at least none that he can think of. _Hmmm, very interesting,_ he thinks, _maybe something happened…but then again, the Prophet would have published it._

Malfoy sits down, giving sign that he won't be leaving any time soon, and Harry follows suit—just to make sure that the blond won't injure himself. He's _not_ worried. He just doesn't want the Malfoy heir to be his responsibility if the boy gets hurt.

"Have you ever wished for something, that no matter how hard and desperate you work and wish for it, that would never come true?"

Harry stops. "Yes," he says tentatively.

"Of course you have," he mutters bitterly, berating himself for asking such a stupid and obvious question. A small bitter smile appears like rain on his face. "If you ever got the chance, would you try to bring them back?"

"I don't know," Harry murmurs, staring at all of the people who he loved that died in the war as they smile back at him. His chest clenches in sadness.

He watches the Mauraders laugh, as if there's a secret joke between the three, and Snape scowl at them both. His mother Lily stares at his father with love and turns to Snape with a soft smile to which he returns hesitantly. Fred waves back at him, thwapping Cedric on the back with a familiar and impish grin and a wink. Cedric gives him a sad look, then proceeds to smile, as if he's forgiving Harry for something that happened once upon a time. Tonks smiles softly before taking Remus's hand in her own, her hair turning bright red.

He has thought about it several times, but he knows that it'll never happen. People shouldn't come back from the dead from wishes—it just isn't done.

"There's this myth," Malfoy starts, his voice hesitant and heavy, "that there's a gate where your greatest desire is granted."

Harry nods, now troubled, thinking back on the Hallows and their back story on the Peverell brothers. "But nothing comes without a price."  
Malfoy nods. _I know._

* * *

"Harry, mate, you're becoming obsessed again," Ron reprimands lightly, more focused on his magazine: _The Quidditch Weekly._

"I am not," he retorts heatedly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're gay." Ron looks up, seeing Harry's horrified expression. "I'm kidding," he says unapologetically, returning his attention to the excerpt on antique broomsticks. "However…" He pauses thoughtfully. "If you were gay, that'll be okay," Ron grins into his magazine, his voice continuing to sing, "I mean 'cause hey! I'd like you anyway!"

The brunette scowls into his parchment, filled with pathetic passages in chicken-like scrawl.

"But you see! If it were me! I'd be free to say that I am gay—BUT I'M NOT GAY!"

"Ron!" Hermione admonishes, horrified at his unseemly display and lack of empathy.

Her boyfriend looks unapologetic as he picks up his magazine and leaves the common room, singing some other tune—"Gay or European…"

He has _not_ been obsessing; any sane person would be curious to what's wrong with Malfoy…okay, maybe not _everyone_, but he is so _not_ a sententious person. How presumptuous and rude.

Harry tries not to get ruffled by the aspersion. He shouldn't be unhinged by it. There's no actual need to care about what the blond says, but he can't help it. It's like the git's goal to make him miserable.

Oh, why can't his life be normal?

* * *

"That's messed up," Ron says, eyeing the table critically.

It's wobbly and uneven with shillings that could give major splinters if one were to run their finger along the top. There's evident styling of attempted beauty that gone wrong. The scene would be less depressing if there weren't a tail swishing from the side.

Harry sniggers, focusing on his mouse, wondering how they're supposed to transfigure the rodent into a desk. Luckily, he did better than Ron, much to the other's chagrin.

Hermione faired the best—surprise, surprise—and she inspects the ginger's wand movements with a disapproving frown. She prevents him from further mutilation of the mouse, critiquing his chant and movement with hurry. There's amusement shining in her eyes at the boy's seriousness as Ron focuses all his energy in pleasing her.

He's really earnest in his words and Harry turns to his dilapidated table back into the rather terrified rodent. Its whiskers are twitching and it gives a feeble squeak before scampering back to the box from where it came from.

Harry would be more sympathetic to the scared mouse…that is, if it didn't bite him earlier. Ron laughed at him and he tried so much in his power to not hit the git.

The bite bark is now a pale scar, thanks to Hermione who also admonished the ginger after hearing him.

Harry's eyes wander towards the other students who're transfiguring their tables back into a rodent. The shiny green dulls as last night comes to mind: the way Malfoy stared at the Mirror of Erised with longing and sadness. It was strange seeing his ex-nemesis like that—sad and worn.

Almost human.

He sighs, defeated, scolding himself for thinking about it.

It shouldn't bother him at all. Hell! He's not worried. Nope. Definitely not.

And neither is he in denial!

When Professor McGonagoll dismisses them, he finds himself pushed towards the Great Hall with an insistent Hermione and an amused Ron. Giving up on resisting them, he takes a seat next to Nevillle and Ron, trying to avoid Ginny's skewering look as best as possible.

Looking over an apple, he sees that the usually occupied seats in the Slytherin section are empty. His head flicks to the door just when it opens. He watches Parkinson and Zabini talk to each other. Parkinson looks irate while Zabini says something with a calm, but irritated face. Malfoy doesn't appear beside them and Harry watches them gather a horde of food before they march back out of the Great Hall.

"Harry!"

His head jerks catty corner to his left. Ginny is pink, glaring at him like a spoilt child would glare at someone if she doesn't get her way.

"What? Sorry, distracted…what did you say?"

She huffs, muttering obscenities into her food. Ron frowns at her before turning his attention back to Luna who's talking to Neville avidly about the miracle uses of Splunks.

Hermione gives him a thoughtful look, one of which he can't see.

* * *

"Draco, what's wrong?"

Since he arrived to their common room last night, he had this thoughtful look on his face and a weird glint in his eyes. Pansy and Blaise have been waiting for him the whole time—Millicent was with them but went to bed after 30 minutes of waiting, deciding that she had better things to do than staying up for the arrival of an insomniac Malfoy.

The look is one that he always has every time he's going to do something idiotic with haphazard outcomes that aren't that thought out.

"Pansy, darling, what makes you think there's something wrong?" He simpers, "there's nothing wrong," glazing over her choked expression.

"Stop being like this," Pansy begs.

Draco's hazy grey eyes fix on the dark skin boy, curious. "Like what?" What has he done wrong? Did he upset them somehow?

Blaise groans at the thick-headed Slytherin Prince, feeling a mild headache coming on. "Being obstinate and impulsive. You're going to do something idiot—that might no less kill yourself," he accuses, his eyes narrow in suspicion.

An innocent façade drifts over Draco's face and the couch he's sitting on breathes out in a huff. "I'm not sure what you're saying."

A gobbledygook of obscenities elicits from Blaise's mouth in a ray of sunshine and rainbows.

_No wonder people can't find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It's all because of Blaise,_ Draco thinks. _But seriously, he should get a Sailor-Slur Prize._ Even Pansy herself looks quite stricken.

"Why don't you trust us," he finally asks after the long, incomprehensible harangue.

Draco blinks, as if this isn't what he was expecting for Blaise to ask.

"I trust you," he says smoothly.

Blaise looks at him in pure disbelief. "I'm not going to delusion myself into believing that," he says. "Look, you don't have to tell us anything until you're ready"—Pansy's mouth opens in protest—"but please tell us why we're doing this…asking this of you."

Draco hesitates, but he sees Blaise's pleading expression—an expression that he rarely wore, even during the war when he wanted to get out of the warring vicinity but was supposed to be with the Slytherins and watch his fellow peers get _Crucio'd_ and _Hexed_. He never cried at all when he was whipped time and times over from defending a Gryffindor first year. He never pleaded for them to stop tearing off his fingernails or from getting _Crucio'd_ for hours straight. He never, _never_, resorted to begging or pleading—a conduct that's heavily frowned upon in the Pureblood Lines.

But he is. Right now—to one of the last people he'd ever plead to—asking something that he'd least expect to ask. Even Draco couldn't help but worry his lower lip and answer, "Know that everything that I will do will be for you…you, Pansy, Theo…and…"

With that, he walks away, leaving a mollified Pansy and a forlorn Blaise staring after him with sad, indescribable eyes.

The unspoken word that they all know floats heavily in the air, threatening to crumble the floors that they stand on. The warmth of the room from the glowing fire chills.

A lonely howl can be heard from outside.

* * *

Harry hasn't seen Malfoy all day—even at Potions. It's only until he finds himself forcibly dragged by two unknown assailants why.

"What?!" He asks in surprise, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Pansy flinches.

"I said, Potter," Blaise growls, his eyes glinting from the torches around them, "That Draco disappeared. He didn't come back to the Common Room last night and he wasn't in bed in the morning."

"He could have left early," Harry meekly offered.

"I wake up before him," Blaise deadpans.

"Disillusionment charms?"

He only quirked his eyebrow.

"Why are you telling me this," Harry finally asks, tiredness laced in his voice.

Blaise's eyes narrow. "Because—undoubtfully—you'll be the only one who'll find him, since you're one of the only few who actually gives a shit about him," Blaise says wryly, mirth in his eyes. With that, he turns, taking the distraught Parkinson with him.

* * *

Harry just stares.

_Dammit. Where could the bloody git gone off to?!_

Harry walks down the corridor to the Gryffindor Tower. Since roaming around aimlessly has gotten him nowhere in find the damned Slytherin, the map would be infinitively more helpful.

He suddenly sees a figure run away from him, turning away from his destination. Heart in his throat, he chases the person, finally catching up.

"Malfoy, there you—" He starts dizzily, cutting off abruptly when he sees the figure's face. Looking down, he spots with mortified horror what's laden in the person's hands. "_Ginny?"_

She has the decency to flush in embarrassment. "Harry, what are you doing here?" She shifts the items so they are hidden more in her cloak. But it's too late.

His eyes narrow in suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"I-I'm just grabbing a snack."

The bright word "Lying" flashes in red in front of his eyes. He tugs her hand with force, breaking her grip from the goods that she's holding. He looks at the blank parchment with a blank expression.

"What is this?" He already knows what is it, he takes the leather book that was in her hand, noticing that there's no engraved title on it. "Didn't you already learn not to take strange books?"

She turns ashen white at his tone. "I…don't—"

"What is this," he demands, holding up a vial. A clinking sound can be heard from inside of it.

"For a project in Herbology," she says evasively.

"I never heard of a project that needed these kinds of seeds."

"Because you weren't here your Seventh Year," she bursts. "Anyway, why do you care about what I'm doing? It has nothing to do with you. You don't need to be pulled into your silly hero-complex for that disgusting, vile Slytherin," she spits venomously.

"I never mentioned Malfoy," he says quietly.

Her breathing becomes haggard, brown eyes dilating with burning hate. The cloak breathes in deeply and quickly out, so shallow and angry that one would think that it's trying to spit something out. He turns around, throwing the vial at her, not even trying to hear what she tries to say in a desperate, hitched voice.

Finding the Room of Requirement, he walks in and sits stiffly on a waiting green chair, opening the leather-bound book, feeling the familiar magic signature under his fingertips. It's not Gryffindor.

The page opens to unfamiliar texts, not starting from where every book usually starts. He reads the cryptic text, his head becoming dizzier in confusion. _Draco, where are you?_ He asks himself, turning the next page.

The heading glares at his eyes.

_Hells Gate_

_Located in Tokyo, Japan, Hell's Gate is the lasting and standing twin gate to Heaven's Gate. The phenomenon surrounding Hell's Gate is still being researched under dozens of organisations. The anomaly that are Contractors hold a highlighted research subject in the Gate, including the organic subjects called Dolls. Astronomics in Tokyo tracks Contractors, thought the target is harder to find if located within the Gate. It's said that the Gate holds an ability to grant wishes—or desire; treated as a myth, few people claim to have seen such miracles actually happen._

_There are some who disappear within the confines of the Gate from unknown occurrences—which many conclude is the result of the Gate's power synthesising with a person's desire. Whatever the reason, the wish is granted, however, not without a Price._

_A Contractor, a person who went through a transition of being human to a whole different persona and body, would become unstable if they were to go inside of the Gate. However, there are still ones who don't have any reaction to the powers of the Gate other than hallucinogenic sights or visions. The reactions depend on the psychological state of the Contractor._

The text suddenly changes and Harry watches it mystically. He's not sure how to react: there's a clear picture in the middle of the page of a star shining up in the dark night sky, bright and luminous, and somehow—he doesn't really know how—but somehow, he know it's Draco…not really Draco, but still him nonetheless.

His eyes clench shut and his fingers shakily turn the rough paper.

_A Contractor's life is represented by a star. The original stars that were once in the sky have been replaced by pseudo-stars in the night sky, influencing the fearful image of the dark creatures._

His mind flashes back to the night in the Forbidden Forest with Draco.

"_You have to work. You cann't give us an F," Harry says, trying to keep his irritation that bubbling in his stomach down._

_Malfoy turns around, his silver eyes catching the moonlight, turning into a luminous pool of blue ice. There's a glint in them that he can't quite place as the Slytherin asks, "What are we doing again?"_

_Harry searches the blonde's face, hoping for a tell that he's kidding, but instead, he sees nothing but seriousness in the liquid silver._

"_We're supposed to look at stares," he bites, feeling the annoyance in his voice, undertone with disbelief._

"_You're right," Malfoy says without a blink of an eyelash. His head swivels towards the glittering dark expanse. And Harry notices how the moonlight softly catches the light colour of his hair in a gentle golden-blue sheen. "Exactly, we're supposed to look at __**stars**__."_

_Shit, _Harry thinks, remembering the night with horrid clarity. He looks down at the book, desperately searching for something that would help him.

_Once a Contractor dies, his or her star will fall, showing the power of the being diminishing into nothing. It's said that the star represents the soul of the Contractor; a Contractor might have lost his soul, releasing it into the sky in an enthralling display of light, which would explain their abnormal behaviours. But once the star that marks the Contractor's life falls, the being is dead._

Blood run cold, sending prickles and chills down his body with fear and anxiousness.

_Shit. Fucking shit_, harry eloquently curses, already hearing Malfoy's voice in his head, snarky and mocking with sly amusement.

_Classy, Potter._

_Bloody fuck. Now I'm imagining his voice._ He winces at the thought of Malfoy being in his head. _Where the damn hell are you?_

With a bated breath, he turns the page. It reveals another picture, filled with bright buildings and foreign symbols. A figure in a dark cloak is running along a sidewalk and he sees the familiar sight of blond hair and pale-blue eyes.

_Fuck._

* * *

**A/N: ** I want to thank everyone who has been reading it and enjoying every little twists and turns so far made. :) I, myself, enjoy writing it so far, and I hope that you guys can bear with me through the trials to come-especially since I'm too lazy to find a beta. ^^; Please review so I can see what I can improve or if it's so great that it doesn't need any improvement so far! XD Love you guys!


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